Chapter 1
Chapter One
One Night
Present Day
Steam wafted from the industrial pressers like breath from a dying animal—hot, damp, carrying traces of whatever had soiled the sheets before Daisy fed them through the machine.
Sweat pooled in the hollow of her throat, slid between her breasts, gathered in the creases of her elbows where heat had turned her skin pink and angry.
Eight hours of this. Sometimes ten. Her hands knew the rhythm without her mind’s permission. Lift, feed, press, fold, stack. The familiar song of machinery no longer bothered her ears. She was as deaf to the white noise as she was to her own breathing.
The Royal Kensington Hotel laundered three thousand pounds of linens daily—the number painted on a sign above the service entrance, as if volume were a virtue.
The guests who slept on these sheets would never see this room.
They would never smell the chemical fog that clung to her hair and clothes, and probably the inside of her lungs.
They found other things in the linens, though. Things meant to disappear. Things she was safer not reporting.
Once, she’d found teeth. A molar with the root still attached, bloody at the tip. Maryanne, her co-worker, had simply crossed herself and carried it to the bin with a rag.
Minimum wage didn’t earn much more of a response than that. Menial workers only touched the evidence of other people’s lives. They were the invisible class, used and unseen. Necessary, but rarely acknowledged, and it was best not to attract attention.
“Daisy… Earth to Daisy.”
Blinking out of whatever daydream she’d been lost in, Daisy glanced at Maryanne apologetically. “Sorry, did you say something?”
Her co-worker stood at her elbow, dark brows drawn together. “You’re somewhere else today, mija. You eat breakfast this morning?” Her rheumatoid fingers lovingly clutched Daisy’s arm with a tenderness that made a knot tighten behind her ribs.
She hadn’t eaten this morning. Only half a tin of beans at nine o’clock the previous night. But she was used to working on nothing but tap water.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Tired is not fine.” Maryanne made a gesture that somehow encompassed Daisy’s overall exhaustion, malnutrition, and the general grind of injustice that accompanied her total existence. “You come to dinner Sunday. I make ropa vieja.”
“You don’t have to—”
“No arguing. You need meat on your bones.” She lowered her voice. “So you can find a man, mija. A good one.”
“I don’t want a man.”
Daisy’s life didn’t allow time to think about such things. Love required time she couldn’t dedicate when survival stole every moment of the day. And love always came with risks, risks that could so easily end in loss.
She’d lost enough.
“Don’t you want someone to make you feel good? Hmm?”
“I’m exhausted as it is, Maryanne.”
“That’s inexperience talking. Passion is the spice of life. It wakes you up naturally. There’s a reason I have six children.”
Daisy laughed, the sound rusty from disuse. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You’ll take my ropa vieja. Sunday. Six o’clock.”
Maryanne bustled off before Daisy could refuse, and the warmth of the interaction faded quickly, leaving behind the steam and clank and the endless white river of sheets that didn’t care whether she lived or died.
The walk home took just under an hour. Her shoes—held together with hope and a prayer—slapped against the wet pavement like a soundtrack to her life. She didn’t think about the blister forming on her heel or the ache in her lower back. And she didn’t stop until she reached St. Crispin graveyard.
Her gaze went to the tree in the far corner.
Branches still bare from winter, but soon they would explode into pink blossoms. She didn’t know who St. Crispin was or why he had a cemetery named after him, but she knew that tree.
A perfect tree, the kind from fairytales, gnarled at the trunk with twisting branches.
She liked to imagine her mother resting beneath those soon-to-come blossoms. At peace, instead of in a generic cardboard box under the water-stained ceiling on Daisy’s mantle. No urn. No headstone. Just her mother’s name and dates on a peeling sticker.
Her hand went to the tarnished gold locket hanging from her neck. Someday, Daisy planned to lay her mother to rest there.
Turning away from the dream for now, she crossed the street to her flat.
As soon as Daisy reached the second floor, she spotted the yellow notice taped to her door. The cruel, crisp warning popped against the peeling paint, and her stomach dropped.
NOTICE OF RENT ADJUSTMENT...no longer subject to rent control provisions... ...increase of ￡340 per month effective immediately... Failure to comply will result in eviction.
Three hundred forty more? That meant sixty-eight hours at minimum wage. Hours she didn’t have.
She ate beans from tins. She hadn’t bought new shoes in two years. Her landlord might as well have asked for the moon.
Throat tight, she ripped the notice from the door and crumpled it in her hand. She shivered the moment she stepped inside, not surprised to find the radiator not working again. Snatching the metal frying pan from the stove, she banged the radiator until it whistled to life.
Uncrumpling the notice, she flattened it on the counter, smoothing out the creases and folding it neatly.
She tucked it inside her tattered copy of The Great Gatsby, where she hid her money.
Her bookshelf, stuffed with paperbacks rescued from curbside boxes, held her only means of escape.
Fairytales and love stories full of beautiful lies.
But in books, the heroines always found a way out.
That night, Daisy dreamed the yellow notice multiplied. One becoming ten. Ten becoming a hundred. Papering the walls until she was drowning in yellow. Until the numbers grew teeth and began chewing through her walls.
She woke gasping as the radiator screamed. Grey dawn was already approaching.
When she entered work, she didn’t immediately start her day.
Fingers frozen, she went straight to the bathroom, as was her ritual.
It took a while for the water to warm, so she started the faucet and sat on the closed toilet lid as she waited, head in her hands, gathering strength rather than falling apart.
Once the water started to steam and she’d had a chance to find some motivation for the day, she washed her hands until feeling returned to her fingers. That was when she saw it.
A square emerald envelope of the richest linen paper she’d ever seen.
Frowning, she dried her hands on her coat and carefully lifted it for a closer look.
The envelope had no place in a rust-stained bathroom covered in cracked porcelain.
She should turn it in to the Lost and Found.
But when she turned it over, gold lettering flashing under the fluorescent light, she hesitated.
Open Me.
Tracing the command with trembling fingers. How could anyone write such pretty letters? The metallic calligraphy was hand-done.
Curiosity got the better of her. Glancing at the door to assure herself it was locked, she looked back at the formal envelope, examining it carefully. Her thumb slipped under the wax stamp, marked with the letters JT, and she broke the seal.
“Oopsy.”
Inside was a stiff single card. Same emerald paper, same gold lettering.
A single night to change the rest of your life.
She opened the envelope wider, searching inside. Nothing else. No explanation. No instructions. Just a stupid website advertisement.
The bin was overflowing with paper, so she stuffed the envelope in her pocket and rushed to her shift.
Later, when she reached into her pocket on the walk home, she remembered it was there.
The library was a mile detour from her usual walk home, and Daisy sometimes stopped in just for the warmth and a change of scenery.
Once at a computer, she typed the address carefully. “Feast of the fallen dot com.”
The screen went emerald, and gold filigree bloomed from the edges. Intricate vines twisted into scrollwork that breathed words onto the page one letter at a time.
A single night to change the rest of your life.
She scrolled down, finding a survey of sorts.
When someone takes control, do you fight, follow, or test them?
She frowned at the odd question, a strange flutter in her stomach. Not quite fear, not quite excitement, but trembling anticipation caught between the two.
Not thinking much about the answer, she scrolled on.
If surrender were safety, would you still call it weakness?
Weakness was a word invented by people who could afford to be that analytical. When it was a choice between pride and eating, the label didn’t matter, but survival did.
What part of you becomes real only in darkness?
She scrolled lower, and a warning message appeared.
You’ve made it this far, but given very little in return.
This only works as an exchange.
Without trust, there can be no reward.
You must answer the questions to reach the reward.
Honesty is weighted higher than grammar.
Desperation carries its own eloquence.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. If it was some sort of game, she truly had nothing to lose. Everything of meaning was already gone.
She filled in one answer, then another, each one leading to the next with a satisfying hit of dopamine, praising her progress along the way. She didn’t care if it was artificial and meaningless. Being commended for her efforts warmed the hollows of her heart.
As the survey went on, the questions became more personal. She was less concerned with guarding her innermost thoughts and more invested in the cathartic outlet the questions provided.
Maybe this was why rich people spoke to therapists. She’d been holding a lot inside since her mother died, and now, she could finally let some of the pain and worry out.
I lost my mother to a disease we couldn’t afford to treat.
My father, a storm that passed through and left wreckage in its wake, was never mine to begin with.
Nothing can replace the family I’ve lost because they aren’t things.
They’re people. But for a short moment, they were mine.
And when you’re not given much in this world, you learn to appreciate what little you have.
“We close in twenty minutes.”
Daisy hurried to finish, now invested and needing to see this survey to the end. She skimmed each question, filling in more and more details about herself. It was a thorough emotional check-up and one she might have needed more than she realized.
Life has taught me to stop waiting. For rescue. For fairness. For someone to notice I was drowning. The world doesn’t pause for grief, so neither could I.
A new question shimmered to life.
What would you do for a million pounds?
What would you do for two?
She sat back, contemplating such a fantasy. She didn’t like to play games that gave her false hope, but she intended to finish this.
She’d finally have the funds to bury her mother properly. She could rest without doing math in her head, without calculating how many days until rent was due or how many meals were left in the cupboard.
For two? She laughed. Who needed two if they already had one?
With one million alone, she’d be able to buy time to live however she wanted.
She could buy a home, a car, take a vacation…
Such luxuries were so foreign to her, they were difficult to picture.
She didn’t dream of yachts or diamonds. But she did long to wake up without fear. That was the truest form of privilege.
She didn’t need a million pounds. She only needed enough to escape the pressure of the burdens weighing her down.
She tried to imagine a life where the air didn’t smell of hunger, and every decision wasn’t driven by desperation.
“Miss, it’s past eight. You have to sign off now.”
“Please. Two more minutes.”
The librarian pressed her lips into a thin line, but nodded.
Daisy filled in the last of the answers, and a notice appeared.
Submitting your answers does not
guarantee an invitation to
The Feast of the Fallen.
Only a select few will be chosen at the host’s discretion.
If selected, you will be notified.
A good-faith incentive will be deposited into your designated account once the application process is complete, if you are accepted.
All this for a scam? She scrolled lower, waiting for the part where they try to wheedle her personal information out of her, but there weren’t any more questions.
What account did they intend to incentivize if they didn’t even attempt to steal her identity properly? For a scam, it was a pretty stupid one.
“Fuck it.” She clicked submit.
The screen went black, and the browser kicked her out. Clicking the search bar, the history was blank as if she’d imagined the whole thing. She typed the address again, only to get an error message.
“What the hell?” Daisy rubbed her forehead. “I need sleep.”
“Miss, I’ve been more than patient—”
“Sorry.” She sprang from the desk, bag in hand, and rushed past the librarian. “I’m going.”